20. Charlie
TWENTY
CHARLIE
The tiles were spectacular. It was Monday morning, bright and early, and I was in heaven. There was considerable damage around the perimeter where the carpet had been tacked down and near the entrance from general wear and tear. But if we could save them, the lobby would look like it had been transported straight out of Jay Gatsby’s mansion.
“Thoughts?”
I glanced up at my sometimes-nemesis, who was turning out to have more depth than the scum-covered pond I’d originally imagined him to be. “I think I’m in love.”
He met my gaze. “I hate to break it to you, Reeves, but I just can’t bring myself to feel that way about ferret haters.”
I elbowed him in the ribs and relished his grunt, then crossed the lobby to the base of the left-side stairs where Vinnie and his guys were working on removing the tack strip that had held the carpet down.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked.
Vinnie grinned at me. “Clean and regrout, and this will come up a treat.”
My heart went pitter-patter. My smile could not be contained. “Yeah?”
“We’ll have to go solid black on the border. Can’t save those. But my tile guy thinks he can recreate the pattern at the lobby entrance. The tiles won’t be a perfect match, but we might be able to make a feature out of it.”
“I think I want to marry your tile guy.”
“How quickly you move on,” Sebastian said, joining us by the stairs. “I’m crushed.”
“Quiet, you. I’m declaring my undying love for Vinnie’s tile guy.”
“His wife might have something to say about that,” Vinnie noted.
I hooked my elbow through Vinnie’s and squeezed his arm. “I’ve never been happier in my entire life.”
He patted my hand, grinning down at me. “Your dad would’ve loved this.”
“A team of bulldozers wouldn’t have been able to keep him out of here once that carpet came up.” I smiled, and for once, the memory of my father didn’t come with a pinch in my heart. I could stand in this beautiful room and remember the handy, lovable, loving man he was. In a way, it felt like restoring this place was my way of showing him how much I’d learned from him, how much it meant to me to save this place and all the others that made New Elwood so special.
I glanced at the man who might destroy it all. Anderson had his arms clasped behind his back as he walked the perimeter of the room, inspecting the most damaged tiles. Calculating the cost of repairs, most likely. Coming up with excuses why it couldn’t be done.
Well. This flooring was another piece of evidence that would convince all the councilmen and women that the theater deserved a second life.
And maybe…
Maybe there was another way. What if we could find a compromise? If we could save part of this place while giving Sebastian something in return…wouldn’t that be better? A smaller hotel, maybe. Something that incorporated the existing architecture instead of razing it.
He wasn’t the bloodsucking capitalist I’d thought he was. All he wanted was to make sure no one suffered the same fate he had as a child. That was understandable, wasn’t it? Maybe even admirable?
I had no doubt that money played a role as well. He was a businessman. But after Friday night, I wondered if there was a solution that would leave us both happy. A safe, modern, profitable building that maintained the most important features we were in the process of revealing.
There was more work to do: cleaning and prepping and a thousand little tasks that I hadn’t planned. The tiling threw our program out the window, and we had to scramble to find time to finish all the work while leaving enough slack in the schedule to restore the flooring.
Surprisingly, Sebastian turned out to be a huge help. He managed the contractors with competence. He foresaw delays with some of the prep and hired extra laborers to work with the painters. The two of us drove around to three hardware stores and six lighting supply stores looking for the right marquee bulbs, only to find out we had to replace every single one if we wanted them to look right.
Sebastian had a contact in Arlington that could give us a discount on the order, so we didn’t blow our exterior budget on lightbulbs. I got closer to securing a deal for the advertising space on the marquee. By the end of the week, I felt like I had a teammate instead of a nemesis. The place was a mess, and the to-do list had only grown longer with not a single job complete other than the emergency exit stairs and the silicone on the ticket booth, but everything else felt doable.
Until I got home on Thursday afternoon.
The stairs creaked as I trudged up them, not bothering to place my feet where I knew the treads were quietest. It had been a long but productive week, and I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home.
When my feet hit the landing, I frowned. A bright-yellow sheet of paper had been tacked to my door, with the words “NOTICE OF INTENT TO DEMOLISH” emblazoned on the front of it. My stomach dropped. With shaking hands, I ripped the sheet off my door and blinked furiously until I could read what that rat bastard had written.
My fury mounted. We, the tenants, were being informed that the building did not meet with residential building codes and would be torn down. Lord Anderson, in his magnanimity, was giving us 180 days, which happened to be the legal minimum for this kind of notice and not a day more. But if we moved within thirty days, there’d be a sweet cash bonus in it for us lowly tenants. He was trying to buy us off.
He spent the week playing nice with me, only to stick this piece of garbage to my door like a coward. Not once—not once —had he said a word about this. We’d worked together for two weeks on this project. We’d reached a kind of truce! We’d laughed together. And now this?
His application hadn’t even come across my desk yet, which meant he didn’t have approval to do this!
The paper crumpled in my hand as I clenched it into a fist. Whirling on my feet, I stomped back down the stairs and marched to his door. My fist banged so hard the wood rattled in its frame.
“Anderson! You bastard! Answer the door and talk to me.” I kicked the bottom of the door. “Open the door!”
This man was smiling in my face and then stabbing me in the back. He was taking over my town and demolishing the only home I’d ever known. He was desecrating my parents’ memory. I’d thought he had depth? I’d thought I was wrong about him? Ha! No, he was scum .
I wound up for another kick, and the door opened. He stood there in gray sweats and a T-shirt that was askew, his hair wet as if I’d interrupted his shower. Good. I’d love to interrupt every pleasant thing he’d ever experienced. I wished him lumpy pillows and cold showers for the rest of his treacherous, two-faced life.
“Explain,” I bit off, thrusting the sheet of paper at his face.
He looked at the paper, then at me. “You are more than capable of reading, Reeves.”
“Wipe that smarmy expression off your face, you capitalist pig. You can’t get away with this.”
“Wow. Capitalist pig. Pulling out the big guns.”
“What makes you think you can destroy one of the oldest homes in this town? The only—” My voice broke. “The only home…”
Anderson frowned at me. “Reeves, it’s not personal but it has to be done.”
“No, it doesn’t!”
He scoffed and spread his arms. “Come on. You can’t stand there and tell me this place is habitable. You fell through the floor a couple of weeks ago. You could have broken your neck. We nearly burned the place down last week. One spark, Charlie. One spark, and this place would be a charred husk of nothing. I know that if this place stays standing, people will get hurt.”
“I’d expect that to be a bonus from your perspective.” I wasn’t buying the whole I-just-want-everyone-to-be-safe bullshit. He’d had me going for a few days, but this? To play nice and then turn around and stab me in the back, kick me out of my home? He could fix the place up. Fireproof it. He could try .
“Oh, give me a break, Reeves. You really think I’m evil? What have I done that hasn’t been completely justified?”
“You’re tearing down my home .”
“Your dangerous, uninhabitable home! What’s the big deal? Is it money? Can you not afford anything better?”
“There is nothing better!” To my horror, tears formed in my eyes. I didn’t want him to see me cry. I didn’t want him to see me weak. He needed to know that what he was doing was wrong, damn it. He needed to pay. He needed to be stopped.
“Oh, hell, woman. Don’t start crying. It’s just a house.”
“You think I want this? You think I like having my eyes leak when I’m trying to tell a man how much I hate him?”
“I don’t get it. Why does this place mean so much to you?”
“Because it was theirs . My parents lived in the downstairs apartment when I came to stay with them. It was the first” —I brushed a tear away, angry at myself for losing control— “the first home I ever had. I was adopted, okay? I went through hell in the foster system until I landed here. It was like walking into a fantasy world. I didn’t know there was a single place on this planet where I could feel safe. I didn’t know that people could—could love me . But they did, and it was right here . That’s why I moved into the attic after college. It was the only place I’d ever belonged. And now they’re gone. If you tear it down, I won’t have anything left .”
I ended my little speech on a pathetic wail, slapping my hands over my face. Sobs shuddered through me, the onslaught of grief and anger and fear too much for me to handle.
Then, just when I was ready to run away, warm arms encircled me, and I was dragged against a broad chest and pulled inside his apartment, the door closing behind us. He smelled like clean laundry and man, and I inhaled a deep, shuddering breath while my tears wet his shirt. His broad hands swept over my back as he pulled me closer, dipping his head to press his cheek to my temple, stubble rasping against my skin.
“I don’t want to hug you. I hate you,” I whined, which would have been mortifying if I were thinking straight.
“I know,” he rumbled, squeezing me tighter.
Seconds ticked by, and the knots in my muscles loosened. I clung to his shirt like it was a lifeline, dragging in breath after breath as I tried to surface through the feelings that had nearly drowned me.
“I get it now,” he said as the silence stretched. “I get what this place means to you.”
I sniffled. “I’m so embarrassed.”
His hand made another pass down my back as he nudged me to look up at him. “Don’t be.” A sigh slipped through his lips and, quietly, he said, “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
My fingers curled into his shirt and despite myself, I relaxed into his embrace. He was warm and he smelled like heaven, and the way he was looking at me made me feel seen for the first time in who knew how long.
Our eyes met. I saw the moment he decided to stop resisting. I saw it, and I did nothing to get away. His face angled as one hand slid up to grasp the side of my neck. His thumb brushed my jaw with the kind of gentleness that made me feel unsteady. His eyes were liquid, and a soft sigh slipped through his lips, like he was just—giving up the fight.
Then Sebastian Anderson—nemesis, neighbor, nuisance—kissed me like nothing else existed.
His thumb pressed against my jaw as he tilted my head back to deepen the kiss, and I lost myself in the feel of his mouth against mine. His broad palm pressed into my lower back, dragging me hard up against his chest. I let out a whimper, and he groaned in response, dragging his tongue over mine.
Then something between us snapped, and all pretense of gentleness was gone. I was bodily shoved against the wall, Anderson’s thigh pressed between my legs. He held my jaw and kissed me hard, his stubble abrading my skin, his touch pinning me where I stood.
My blood heated and I gave as good as I got. I bit his lower lip and pushed at his chest. He rocked back, blown-out pupils staring back at me as his chest heaved, and then grinned when I dragged him right back.
“I hate you,” I mumbled against his lips.
He grabbed my hips and dragged me up against his thigh. “Hate me harder, then.”
My retort was on the tip of my tongue, but it was swallowed by his kiss. I dragged my nails over his scalp and gasped when he fisted a hand in my hair. He tugged my head to the side and licked up the side of my neck like he couldn’t get enough of me, and all the while, his thigh pressed against the apex of my thighs, exactly where I needed it.
“This changes nothing,” I said between pants.
He tightened his fist in my hair and pulled back to stare in my eyes. “It changes everything, Charlie.”
I let out a sorry excuse for a scoff, and then he was easing the pressure of his thigh on my clit, unbuttoning my jeans, and sliding his hand down the front of my underwear. The contact of his hand against me was a shock. The heat of his fingers. The way he touched me like he owned me. A groan rumbled through him as he did, his forehead falling forward to rest against mine.
“You,” he said, dragging his fingers up to toy with my clit, “are a little liar.”
Clinging to his shoulders, I widened my stance and let my head fall against the wall. “How do you figure?”
“You keep telling me you hate me while you stand there soaking through your panties from nothing more than a kiss.” As if to underscore the point, he gave my clit another rub. Sparks exploded behind my eyelids.
I bit my lip to hold back my moan. “I don’t see how the two are mutually exclusive.”
“I turn you on.”
“Unfortunately.”
He huffed, then spun me around so my chest was pressed against the wall. My jeans and underwear were shoved down to mid-thigh, and then his hand was sliding down my stomach to press just below my navel. With his free hand, he pulled my wrists up above my head while he pulled my hips back against his, stretching and positioning me how he wanted me.
“Don’t fucking move,” he said in my ear while the hand on my stomach slid lower.
“I see the bossy, overbearing version of you is back.”
He hummed, letting go of my wrists to push my hair out of the way. His lips brushed against the back of my neck while he touched me where I needed him most. I tried to widen my stance but was pinned by my jeans.
He noticed the movement and chuckled. “What did I just say, sweetheart?”
Then he used one hand to tease my bud while the other slid over my ass, grasping it gently like he couldn’t help himself before sliding between my legs to my opening. I moaned when he entered me from behind with a thick finger, and my head fell between my shoulders.
“Want you to come on my hands, Charlie.”
“Oh, god,” I moaned as he added a finger. “Oh, god .”
“That’s not my name. Say my name, Charlie.”
“You’re the worst, you know that?”
I yelped when he used the flat of his fingers to smack my clit, then trembled slightly when he eased the sting with a gentle touch. “Say my name and I’ll make you come, sweetheart.”
“Anderson—”
Another smack made me jump, the pain skittering over my nerve endings as it melted into pleasure. He was the worst. This was so bad. I never wanted it to stop.
“My name , Charlie. That’s what I want you to say when you come on my hands.”
My head splintered, my hands pressing into the wall. How did I get here? Why was I doing this? My body was out of control, and all I knew was that the man behind me was making me feel like no one else ever had. He’d held me. He’d seen me.
And he was right. He hadn’t done anything that was wrong, other than holding opinions that were opposite to mine. He wanted this town to be safe. He was providing a way for the town to survive .
“Charlie, sweetheart,” he said, breath panting as it skated across my nape. “I’ve been wanting to make you scream my name since you fell into my bed. I’ve jerked off to the thought of you. All I want to do is get on my knees and taste that sweet pussy of yours?—”
“ Sebastian ,” I moaned, trembling overtaking my body.
“ Yes ,” he replied in the same tone, his movements becoming jagged, his breaths heavy.
I came chanting his name, his hands working magic on my body like I’d never felt before. My orgasm slammed into me and it was all I could do to stay on my feet. Sebastian held me with one arm hooked around me, palming my core to pin me to him. He slid his other hand out of me, and I felt him tremble as he took himself in hand beneath his sweats. I clung to the wall with one hand and his hip with the other, glancing down to watch him jerk himself no more than three or four times before he was shouting his pleasure.
We collapsed against each other, my body sandwiched between him and the wall, and dragged in long, jagged breaths.
Sebastian was the one who moved first. He slid his hands down my hips until he reached my underwear, sliding the cotton panties back up where they belonged with a gentle touch. Then he did the same with my jeans while I tried to wrestle with what the hell had just happened.
I turned to face him, jeans undone, face a postcoital mess, probably. His hands stayed on my hips as he watched me.
“This changes nothing,” I repeated, desperately trying to rebuild my walls from the rubble he’d made of them.
Sebastian grinned. “Okay,” he said, then leaned forward to press a soft kiss to my lips. He made a vague gesture to his crotch and mumbled something about cleaning up, and as soon as I heard the bathroom door close, I took the opportunity to run back to my apartment and lock the door.
Cowardly? Yes.
Necessary? Absolutely.